Different Clocks

 


By Dr. Marco V. Benavides Sánchez.


At five years old, a summer was eternal. The days were so long they seemed to have no border. Time glided leisurely between puddles, bicycles, and hands damp with fruit. There was no rush, because everything that mattered was within reach of the instant: a new game, an ant crossing the ground, a cloud shaped like a dragon. Time was elastic, generous, almost motionless. And one didn't know it, but one lived in a country without clocks.

At forty, however, a summer is a sigh between obligations. It arrives without warning and leaves in a hurry. Between work, commitments, pending emails, the day's surgery, reports due, and the silences one hasn't yet learned to listen to, the days shrink. The sun shines through the window, but it doesn't warm. The to-do list takes over contemplation. The notion of time is measured in workweeks, not aimless afternoons. And one begins to suspect that clocks don't just tell time: they also steal it from us.

At sixty, summer is a miracle that still warms the bones. Not because of poor health, but because of an excess of awareness. The body learns to slow down, not out of clumsiness, but out of wisdom. Time is no longer chased after; it is invited to sit. A chair is offered by the garden. Coffee is served. Because time, in the end, is not the enemy: it is the guest we failed to treat. And now, when there is not so much to prove and so many places to go, time becomes broad again, as in childhood. The child and the old man hold hands, as if closing a circle.

One begins to notice that the same sun shines differently depending on the moment in life. Not because the star has changed, but because our eyes have changed. What was once a landscape is now a symbol. What was once ignored is now treasured. A bird singing, a shadow crossing a face, a slow conversation: everything matters again.

Each stage of life has its own way of measuring time. Childhood is measured in discoveries. Youth, in emergencies. Adulthood, in productivity. Old age, in memories. Perhaps the truly wise thing to do is not wait until we're sixty to reconcile ourselves with time. Perhaps we need to learn to stop before then. To contemplate. To not always run after something. To look again at a cloud shaped like a dragon.

The same sun, the same season, different clocks. But we can still choose which one to use.

#Medmultilingua #Summer

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